


And We'll Pretend

by goblinish



Category: Suits (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Morning After, Staple Guns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-13
Updated: 2011-08-16
Packaged: 2017-12-30 01:26:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1012367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goblinish/pseuds/goblinish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mike has heard about Harvey being a womanizer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. And We'll Pretend

**And We'll Pretend**

Mike can't sleep. 

Harvey sleeps easily beside him, breathing slow and even. Harvey's laying on his back, limbs akimbo, head tilted to the side, away from Mike; yet his body has gravitated a little more to the center of the bed with each passing hour, taking up more than his fair share of room. 

But then, it is his bed. 

Mike doesn't belong here. He suspects that's part of what's keeping him awake; the knowledge weighs too heavily in his mind. He's tense, despite the spine-tingling orgasm of just a few hours ago, and achingly aware of Harvey beside him. Harvey's slow crawl into the center of the bed has kept Mike shifting ever closer to the margins. 

He wouldn't mind just settling himself against Harvey's side, but - he's dead certain that Harvey Specter doesn't _cuddle_. He feels precariously close to the edge of the bed, and ridiculous for it. Staying in bed has been a careful balancing act, in this last hour. Mike lets out a shaky, silent laugh, and scrubs a hand down his face. He's going to fall out of the bed. It's almost _funny_.

He feels a little like crying, actually.

You can't get much clearer than this, this slow inexorable push: even in his _sleep_ , Harvey's making it crystal clear that Mike isn't actually welcome here. Harvey, Mike knows, doesn't do serious. Harvey does one night stands.

This was just a fuck. 

*

Morning comes creeping in, slow and careful - so slow that Mike doesn't even notice, until he abruptly realizes that the previously dark room has turned a soft, hazy grey. And with the false dawn, the real world comes rushing in. 

Last night, Mike hadn't really cared about anything but Harvey's mouth and Harvey's hands and the delicious way he'd held Mike down on the bed. The breathless way he'd asked what Mike wanted. The way he'd demanded instructions. Mike hadn't been able to do anything but thrill at being the first man Harvey had ever wanted like this. 

He hadn't given much thought to after. 

But now, Mike is gripped by a sudden need to get _out_. He doesn't want to do this. He doesn't want to sit in Harvey's kitchen and let Harvey say, "You know this didn't mean anything, right?" or "This was fun, but it shouldn't happen again," or "Oh - I thought you left last night?"

He should have left last night. 

He really is close to falling out of the bed. Mike shifts onto his stomach and then lowers his outside arm and leg, touching his hand and foot to the floor, and gently puts his weight on them, sliding gracefully over the side of the bed. He rests on his hands and knees for a moment, then slowly, quietly rises. 

He picks his clothes off the floor, dresses as quietly as he can, and doesn't look back. 

*

Mike rides his bike home. He puts on a fresh suit, and then heads to Pearson Hardman. 

Harvey, he knows, is going to pretend like it never happened. Mike doesn't want to be the needy associate who doesn't understand how this works; he has to meet Harvey halfway. But he can't pretend like it never happened if he's in the clothes Harvey tore off of him the night before. 

Today's suit is crisp and clean. 

It has never been on the floor of Harvey Specter's apartment.

*

Donna is mad at him. 

Mike isn't sure why; all he did was thank her for her help with the Yates subpoena from the week before, but she didn't say anything in return, and only barely acknowledged him at all. She just glared at him for a moment, and then started opening and slamming shut her desk drawers, pointedly, as showily (and falsely) busy as possible, until he got the picture and left. 

*

Harvey calls him into his office at around eleven. 

When Mike walks in, Harvey is sitting at his desk, attention centered on the papers in front of him. He stills for a minute when Mike walks in, but doesn't immediately look up, and Mike takes the opportunity just to look at him. 

The bend of Harvey's neck looks strangely vulnerable, but - Harvey is wholly composed, of course. His slicked-back hair is an abomination. The man in front of Mike has likely reduced any number of lovers to a quivering mess of lust, but he's never come undone for anyone, let alone for Mike. 

The carefree smile fades from Mike's mouth before Harvey even raises his head. 

"Good morning, Ross," Harvey says carefully.

Mike summons another grin from somewhere. "Morning. Hey, so, Yates's staff sent over those figures. I've been going through them all morning, and I really think we've got him."

Harvey watches him through this, and doesn't reply immediately. "That's excellent," he says eventually, and takes a breath to continue, and Mike just - _breaks_. 

"Listen, about last night," Mike says, just to say it first. Harvey looks at him expectantly. "It shouldn't have happened."

And Harvey just _freezes_.

"I mean, I enjoyed myself," Mike adds quickly, and something tense in the set of Harvey's shoulders seems to relax a bit, "but of course it didn't mean anything."

There's a pause, a long terrible moment where Harvey's face is just distant, and then something coolly amused drifts into his expression.

"Of course it didn't," Harvey drawls. Harvey sits back, settling comfortably in his six-thousand dollar desk chair. He's wrapped in the kind of effortless presence and authority that makes a power play out of being the one having to look up. Mike stands there, feeling ridiculous. 

He shouldn't have said it. It didn't need to be said. 

"Was there anything else?" Harvey asks, and Mike breaks eye contact. 

No. There's nothing else. 

***

That was the clearest dismissal Harvey could manage. 

Mike's words are still running their course through Harvey's system. It is far from pleasant.

_It didn't mean anything._

Harvey watches Mike, will not be the first to look away. Mike hesitates, begins to speak once, twice; both attempts aborted before they even begin. Mike seems almost to sway, then nods jerkily, turns, and leaves Harvey's office. 

*

_It didn't mean anything._

Harvey has never had to say this to a woman. Whatever his faults, he has always been irreproachable in this regard: his one night stands understand precisely what is going to happen before the fucking commences. Moreover, he doesn't do one night stands with people who may already be attached to him, even if they do understand the 'one night' principle. Harvey's temporary lovers know they are temporary, and they are happy to view him in the same light. 

Harvey has never had to say this to a woman. The idea that he would need to is distasteful.

But there is something _shocking_ about those words, when they are said to him. 

For all his careful principles, his personal rules that make sure he will never need those words, it has never once occurred to Harvey that someone else could think _he_ needs to hear them. ( _It didn't mean anything._ ) Harvey has always thought - not without cause - that he was not a person who would make this kind of mistake. He has never been prone to overestimate the good will of others. He never thought he would be the kind of person to invent a two-sided relationship where only one side exists - he never thought he _could_.

There is nothing like waking up alone for the realignment of perception.

Harvey had woken up in an empty bed. The bed, the room, the whole apartment - all of it too big, too quiet, and with a strange, deserted quality. His one text had gone unanswered. Harvey had hoped it was all some kind of mistake, that he'd get to work and Mike would explain.

_It didn't mean anything -_

And that is precisely what happened. 

Mike explained. 

*

Donna comes into Harvey's office, with no particular errand. She studies him for a long moment, and Harvey ignores her, keeping his face expressionless and his attention focused on the file in front of him. 

Harvey caves before she does.

He looks up. He schools his expression into something resembling impatience, maybe even irritation: he is very busy. 

"I have a new staple gun," Donna says. "It can staple into high-density oak, has a jam-proof mechanism, and propels any airborne staples you may accidentally shoot at least thirty feet."

Harvey takes a moment to process that. 

"Thank you, Donna," he says. 

"Can I get you anything, Harvey?" she asks, gently, and he shakes his head. 

She goes back to her desk.

*

After that, Mike is awkward around Harvey. 

It's not so bad that just anyone would notice, but it's quite literally impossible for Harvey to miss. From the day they met, Mike has been honest with Harvey, in a way that Harvey thinks is probably a little bit of a novelty for Mike. A spilled briefcase of weed, the freely-offered admission that Mike was just there to hide from the cops, and then (and it's odd, perhaps, but Harvey knows that this next one is the most precious of these first little truths) - the sheer scope of Mike's _want_. Day one, and Mike had told Harvey that he'd spent years wanting to find his way back to another life - and Harvey doesn't think Mike had ever told that to anyone else. It's possibly something Mike hadn't even admitted to himself, before that moment. 

Mike has never bothered with artifice around Harvey. 

The change now is startling.

Mike's smiles are calculated. His banter is forced. His work is still phenomenal, but he seems more relieved than anything else when that's acknowledged - not pleased, by any means. Mike seems to have developed a much more complicated relationship to his desire for approval.

In his dealings with Mike, Harvey is carefully, scrupulously correct. It's annoying. Harvey does it anyway.

He is almost certain he didn't coerce Mike into anything -

(but the possibility weighs heavily in his chest, this slow dark panic that he has to shut down, because if it's true - if he really did that to Mike - then none of this can be about Harvey's hurt feelings)

\- but he is now keenly aware of the power imbalance in their relationship. Not just within the hierarchy of the firm, but also within the awkward spaces of their shared secret. Harvey does his best to convey that nothing has changed, but he wonders if Mike is more worried about losing his job now. The idea makes him sick.

...And really, Harvey sympathizes. It probably sucks, actually, trying out the one-night-stand thing on your boss, only to realize that your boss is in love with you. Harvey wonders if Mike knew that before the sex, or if he figured it out some time that night, when Harvey was peacefully sleeping beside him, and Mike was staying only long enough to decide whether it would be acceptable to leave without any sort of acknowledgement.

(To which the answer would be 'no,' of course.)

There's a strange, (almost) completely unrelated part of Harvey that wants to help Mike with this. How To Live This Life. Step one: a better suit. Step two: making one night stands between colleagues easy. 

Because Mike's turning out to be pretty bad at it. Nothing Mike has done - from the very beginning, when he disappeared that first morning - has managed to convey 'casual.' And he keeps staring at Harvey when he thinks Harvey doesn't notice, and he looks...sad. 

He looks a little like how Harvey feels about all of this, actually.

Because, yes: Harvey wanted to make Mike breakfast, maybe have lazy morning sex, and then see where things could go from there. But he wouldn't have wanted any of that if it weren't for the simple truth that Harvey just genuinely likes Mike. He has from the moment they met. 

He thinks they were starting to be friends, before all of this happened. 

Harvey wants that back.

 

***

Mike copes. 

It isn't even that hard; it seems to happen automatically. The strangest thing about each difficult moment is that they pass. 

That first night after, Mike wanders restlessly around his apartment, aimless - feeling an odd comfort in being in his own territory, but unable to make himself do anything productive. But then he literally stumbles onto his lost phone - only missing forty-eight hours, but God, there was so much backlog to go through. 

After a half-hour of slogging through his messages, Mike finds a text from Harvey. It is timestamped from that morning. It says, simply, 

_where are you._

Mike stares blankly at his cell screen. He _had_ been late to work that morning (the detour to his own apartment had necessitated it), and it was perfectly reasonable for Harvey to have been irritated. 

No matter what they'd done in bed the night before. 

Perfectly reasonable. But Harvey had been terrifyingly distant all day, and Donna had been simply terrifying, and Mike had screwed up on an expense report for Louis (and Jesus, Mike must have looked like warmed-over roadkill, because Louis hadn't even given him much shit about it), and throughout all of this, all day, whenever he'd managed to forget for even a moment, the collar of his shirt would brush lightly against the love bite on the back of his neck.

So the text...it reads like a final blow. Mike sits back on his couch, closes his eyes, and rubs a hand down his face. He is so tired. 

He breathes.

*

He gets used to it. 

Mike works hard, though he's careful not to be too needy, too eager for praise. Because -

Well. When this job works, it's because he's thrown his whole self into it. He actually thinks about it, and he isn't sure he can truly compartmentalize the personal away from the professional, not in general and certainly not where Harvey is concerned. Not when a simple nod, a "good work" or "thank you," and Mike feels more grounded, content. But he doesn't want Harvey to figure out the full value Mike places on Harvey's good opinion, not if Harvey is only looking at him in a professional light. 

So anyway. He does his fucking job. He wakes up, he goes to work, he goes home, he sleeps. He phones Trevor in Montana, meets up with Jenny, and trades good-natured barbs with Rachel whenever he needs to ask her for help. He avoids Donna, because she keeps fondling the staple gun that has appeared on her desk, and it is deeply unsettling; she starts looking at him with concern a few days later, and then he works even _harder_ at avoiding her until things go back to normal.

And it gets easier around Harvey. It almost _has_ to - they work cases together, and Mike can't afford the distance that's created if he's always in his head, over-thinking everything. Their clients deserve better from him. Harvey's the one who comes at things logically; it is important to Mike that he bring a different approach. He has to attack every problem with the passion it deserves. 

So Mike argues and challenges Harvey and pushes, and when he's right he pushes more, revels in the certainty of it. They argue, and they piss each other off, and they enjoy it. Mike is Harvey Specter's chosen, both right-hand man and devil's advocate. 

Their banter returns. It gets easier to tease Harvey again. And Harvey's brusqueness starts to melt back to that oddly endearing brand of _smug_ that Mike pretends to find annoying.

Everything is going to be fine. 

*

One morning, as he rifles absently through his suits (passing right over _that suit_ , as usual), Mike realizes abruptly that the bruises that used to bracket his hipbones ( _Harvey's fingers, holding him down, holding on_ ) are gone. 

It's like Harvey was never there.

Mike does an inventory; his body is now completely free of any lingering marks from the night they spent together. It makes Mike feel tense, angry: erased. He wants to wear a reminder on his skin again. 

He scowls at himself in the mirror. He wears _that suit_ to work. 

*

At Pearson Hardman, Mike invites himself into Harvey's office on a pretext - _here's this file I probably could have just given Donna_ \- and Harvey distractedly looks up from his desk, taking the file from Mike's hand - 

and drops it. 

Harvey pauses, taking in the suit; clears his throat, and composes himself again, all within the space of a moment. His face adopts the aggressively distant look familiar from the days just after they had fucked. 

Weirdly, something loosens in Mike's chest. 

Mike sinks to the ground, slow and deliberate. He picks up the stupid file, stands, and places it on Harvey's desk. He never looks away.

Harvey watches him. "Ross," he says, and he sounds cautious, curious.

Mike just wants to feel like a goddamn grownup again. He opens his mouth, considers, and shuts it again. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, a picture of negligently contained energy. He came in here feeling confrontational, maybe even belligerent, but now all that is left is that same restless tension from this morning. 

He wonders what he'd do, if only Harvey asked. He wonders if this is what Harvey means when he says caring is a liability.

*

They're walking back to the office from a lunch meeting.

"Okay, _wow_ ," Mike says, smirking. "You really _felt_ for her. Harvey Specter cares about a client!"

"I _believed_ her," Harvey replies, sounding superior and amused. "It's not the same thing." 

"Fine, you believed her. And then you took on her case. Pro bono." 

"I have a quota to fulfill."

Mike laughs at him. "Admit it, Harvey Specter. Admit it! You are capable of caring." 

And Harvey slows. He looks like someone punched him.

"That," Harvey says quietly, "was in exceptionally poor taste." 

Mike pauses. "I meant Shannon Brady," he says, because he had - but he also doesn't think he'd said anything wrong, and he's so tired of being a one-time fuck Harvey doesn't bother to remember, so: "Don't worry," he adds tersely a moment later. "I wasn't getting presumptuous."

And with that, Harvey stops dead still on the sidewalk. Mike turns to face him, and is shocked to see something that resembles fury on Harvey's face. 

" _'Not getting presumptuous,'_ " Harvey snaps. "That's what you're going to go with." 

Mike blinks at him. "Harvey -"

"You insist that I _care_ about Shannon Brady, and you didn't mean _you_?"

Mike feels like the wind's been knocked out of him. 

"This is - I don't - this is _ludicrous_ ," Mike hisses, disbelieving. "You are not allowed to be mad that I like you!"

"You like me," Harvey says flatly. He turns abruptly and resumes his walk toward Pearson Hardman, his stride quicker now, angrier. 

Mike follows, jogging a little to catch up, and feeling resentful for it. "What, like the sex wasn't evidence enough?"

"Well, no, not really," Harvey replies, acidly. "Do you always leave without a word when you 'like' someone?" he continues, and Mike can practically hear the quotes. No one can do sarcasm like Harvey. No one can -

Mike's steps slow. "Wait, what?" he asks, surprised, and stops walking. 

The flow of pedestrian traffic keeps going without him, following Harvey. 

Someone knocks into Mike's shoulder. Mike barely notices. 

He loses sight of Harvey in the crowd.

*

It occurs to Mike that leaving someone's apartment in the middle of the night is not the best way to indicate interest.

There's a sick, twisting feeling in the pit of his stomach. 

There is also a strange, wild hope.

*

There's something almost surreal about the walk back to Pearson Hardman. 

Mike walks slowly, remembering that night in fragments of image and emotion. 

_Walking into Harvey's apartment, closing the door behind him, knowing what he wanted._

_Knowing it would hurt to be nothing more, after this. Knowing it would be worth the hurt._

_Setting down the casefile a few hours later, looking over at Harvey, and thinking, Please. Now._

_Leaning over and kissing Harvey._

_Harvey's hands on him._

Mike has to do this right. This is his fault. He's lost something, but it feels just barely out of his grasp, and - 

If he can figure out the right thing to say. The right way to say it.

He thinks he just might be able to have everything he wants.

*

Donna moves to intercept him, then really looks at him and stills. She gives him a warning look, but steps aside. 

Mike walks into Harvey's office. 

*

Harvey stands at the windows, looking out at the city skyline. He has his back to the room, to Mike - a sharp slash of a figure, composure in a dark suit, and something about the set of Harvey's shoulders makes Mike ache with want. 

Harvey turns around, and his expression is closed off, guarded. There is nothing welcoming about him. 

But Harvey's the one who showed Mike how to want things again. Harvey's the only reason he knows how to try.

"I thought I knew how to read people," Mike starts, carefully. "I'd gotten pretty good at it before I met you. But I guess I need to work on it."

Harvey doesn't say anything.

"I thought you only did one-night stands," Mike says.

"Yes," Harvey replies. "I figured that out this afternoon, thank you." 

"Harvey -"

"Ross. Mike," Harvey amends, gently. "This is...absolutely unnecessary."

"But I really thought you just -"

"Yes," Harvey interrupts again, something horribly easy in his tone, "but here's the thing: I don't care." 

Mike stills. This doesn't make sense. 

And then, abruptly, it does: they're still having two different conversations. 

"Wow, no," he says, with a rush of relief, "No, this isn't just some apology, Harvey, I'm - no." He laughs. "God. I'm not sorry."

He means it. Mike regrets leaving the morning after, but he's not sorry they slept together; he wasn't even sorry when he thought that night hadn't meant anything to Harvey. 

But the minute the words are in the air, he knows it was the wrong thing to say. 

Harvey smiles. Just a little. It is not a nice smile. 

"Wait," Mike falters.

"I think we're done here," Harvey says, mildly. He turns away, moves to stand over his desk, and starts shuffling through the papers scattered across it. 

Panic rises in Mike's chest.

And Harvey's just - he's frowning distractedly at the goddamn papers in his hands. "Send Donna in on your way out," Harvey adds. "Have her bring in the files for the Caine merger." 

Time to go all in. " _Harvey,_ " Mike snaps. "I'm in _love with you._ "

And it can't be unsaid. 

Harvey stares at him. 

Mike smiles weakly. "Probably have been since the day we met." 

And Harvey is still staring at him. 

After a moment, the look shifts to one made more of scrutiny than of surprise. Harvey tilts his head. "You've spent a lot of time avoiding me recently," he says.

"I _thought you only did one-night stands_ ," Mike repeats.

Then Mike can practically _see_ Harvey reconsider their relationship in this light, though he can't read Harvey well enough to actually trace his thoughts. 

A few moments pass.

"I see," Harvey says eventually, and Mike smiles.

He walks up to Harvey's desk; closer. Mike wants to touch him, and feels an intense, visceral hatred for glass-walled offices. He reaches out and plucks up the nearest inanimate object (a signed baseball, though he can't read the signature), just to have something to occupy his hands.

Harvey watches his fingers, and Mike grins a little, hoping Harvey is thinking about more interesting uses for his hands, though Mike thinks ruefully that it's just as likely Harvey is watching out for his collector's item. Then Harvey sits behind his desk, and:

"Don't forget to send Donna in," Harvey says, and Mike drops the ball. 

He leans down to pick it up, hears Harvey's exasperated "Please be careful with that," and by the time Mike stands up again Harvey's attention has returned to his stacks of papers.

Mike carefully puts the baseball back on its display on Harvey's desk. "Harvey," he says. 

"I'm your boss, Mike."

Mike blinks at him. "So?"

"So it's not allowed."

Mike laughs incredulously. "So what's one more secret, Harvey, come on."

"Donna. Please."

It feels like a wound. 

_I was right_ , Mike thinks blankly. _I was right all along._

He straightens his spine. "Yeah, of course," Mike says, and turns to go. He has his hand on the door, but then:

"Mike," Harvey says behind him.

Mike turns, and sucks in a breath at the look on Harvey's face. Harvey's expression is open, and strangely defenseless.

Harvey regards him solemnly from his chair. "Have dinner with me," he says quietly. "We'll talk about it."

Mike considers him. "It's a date," he says, pointedly, and Harvey nods. 

"It's a date."


	2. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That is some sneaky shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note** 08/16/2011: I originally ended it there, because it seemed more fitting, but I literally couldn't stand it. 
> 
> The rest doesn't fit tonally with the actual story - I was going for less grave, more happy. If you prefer your angsty stories with uncertain endings, stop here!

Mike can't sleep.

The thing is - much like Mike used to - Harvey seems to be operating under the belief that he is not a cuddler. _But_. Well. 

Harvey totally is.

Oh, not after sex. That would be a little too convenient, because _Mike_ is an after-sex cuddler. (Well, not usually, but it's not unheard of.)

No, Harvey needs his space after sex, and he needs his space to fall asleep, but once he is asleep he turns into some kind of accidental stealth cuddler, and it's just - Mike can't sleep when he's too hot. 

Mike wouldn't actually mind; hell, he actually sleeps better when he's sharing a bed, he doesn't like the isolation of sleeping alone, but Harvey takes up more than his fair share of space and keeps touching him and damn it, New York in the summer is a humid place.

So Mike fidgets himself awake again (out of a dream of bungee jumping into volcanoes, what the hell) to find that he's kicked a little more of the sheet away, and that Harvey has once again wandered into the center of the bed. Harvey has somehow managed to maneuver himself, _in his sleep_ , until he is actually _under_ Mike, with Mike's head on Harvey's chest. 

That is some sneaky shit.

Mike sits up, looks down at Harvey in the dark; his eyes have long since adjusted accordingly. Harvey is sleeping on his back again, which seems to be his favored sleeping position. The sprawl of Harvey's body is open, assured; it should look vulnerable, but instead it just looks confident. _Even asleep_ , Mike thinks wonderingly, _Harvey Specter is a smug bastard_. He feels himself smiling against his will, limned with the kind of faint hysteria that colors everything when you're sleep deprived. He can't help it; he feels a sort of helpless tenderness. 

But he deserves to sleep.

Experimentally, Mike pokes Harvey in the side. Harvey frowns in his sleep, but doesn't wake. 

This is promising. 

Mike gingerly pushes Harvey back to his own side of the bed. When he's managed it, Mike flops onto his stomach, grabs his pillow in both hands, lays his head down, and happily sinks down into the mattress. Mike sighs contentedly as he settles in, wholly and happily aware of Harvey's body lying beside his. 

He likes that Harvey is there, likes that he could reach out and touch Harvey at any point. As if they are both waiting puzzle pieces. As if any fool could see that they go together.

Mike sleeps.

***

Harvey wakes up alone. 

He frowns up at the ceiling. He listens for any sound of Mike - the shower running, the fridge opening, anything - but Harvey's apartment is silent. He pulls on a pair of sleep pants and wanders into the kitchen. He glances around for a note. There isn't one that he can see; he doesn't look particularly hard.

He makes french toast. He is very, very good at french toast. He makes enough for two. 

Mike stumbles through the front door a half-moment after the first slice goes on the griddle, bearing a drink carrier with two cups from the coffee shop at the corner of the block. They make Harvey's favorite coffee.

"Hey," Mike calls out, grinning. "I found your spare key. I like your doorman - doorwoman? Is that a word? - she has good taste in music." Mike tosses his coat in the general vicinity of Harvey's couch and rolls his eyes at Harvey's raised eyebrow (he _has_ a coat rack). 

Mike wanders into the kitchen, carrying the coffee. 

"You wouldn't believe the lines at this place. _I_ can't believe you don't have a coffee maker." Mike sidles up next to him, and sets the carrier on Harvey's counter. "Why don't you have a coffee maker?"

Then Mike pulls Harvey in with a hand at the back of his neck, plasters himself against Harvey's front, and licks into Harvey's mouth. Harvey wraps an arm around his waist, flattens a hand at the small of his back. They kiss slow and dirty and sweet. It's really, really good. It's still new. 

Harvey pulls back with a smirk, then kisses him once more before turning back to breakfast. 

They eat. Mike hums happily over his food. 

Harvey scratches the back of his neck. "Leave a note next time?"

And Mike looks at him, and says, "I can do that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Original Author's Note** 08/16/2011:  
>  I just wanted to thank everyone for the comments. They've made me very, very happy, and provided excellent motivation to keep trying when I didn't have the slightest clue how to fix the mess I'd made. :D
> 
> And thank you especially to the OP, who left a prompt that spoke directly to my id. <3
> 
> Also:
> 
> And We'll Pretend: The Soundtrack!
> 
> If anyone's curious, I wrote most of parts one through four listening to Death Cab for Cutie's "Tiny Vessels" on repeat (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SFChWRLCQ4w&feature=fvsr). Lyrically the song has more to do with what they thought was going on than what was actually happening, but musically it pretty much captures exactly the mood I was going for. Which is to wallow in misery. 
> 
> And then I transitioned into "Transatlanticism," by the same. It's actually the track that follows "Tiny Vessels" on the CD, and it fixes everything. Seriously, it's magical. The song is the musical equivalent of the sun rising over the ocean, of the hopeful aftermath of a storm. The first thirty seconds in particular kept sliding through my head as I was writing part seven. 
> 
> *
> 
> Thanks again, everyone. I LOVE THIS BAR. <333
> 
>  
> 
>  **Author's Note** 10/20/2013: I love this story wholeheartedly and without shame, but I'm still baffled at how well received it was. I was basically wallowing in my hind brain.
> 
> I still love this bar. :)
> 
> Originally posted here: http://suitsmeme.livejournal.com/2038.html?thread=2292726#t2292726


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